From Michael Palin's "Hemingway Adventure"
THOUGH NEITHER SYLVIA BEACH NOR the original Shakespeare and Company are still going, a bookshop bearing the same name and run on affectionately eccentric lines by an American called George Whitman, bas been open for business down by the Seine since 1964.
There has grown up quite a fashion lately for bookstores to provide ancillary services such as food and drink and reading rooms, but George, a handsome man of mature years with a tweed jacket and a mop of chalk-white hair, is way ahead of the game. Shakespeare and Company is the only bookstore I know where you can sleep overnight, be brought a cup of tea in a bed set in an alcove in the middle of the Children's Book department and have Notre Dame cathedral as the view out of your window. The shop is open every day of the year, including Christmas Day, and if you turn up on any Sunday George and his interns will serve you tea.
George welcomes me this morning and apologizes for not being a great Hemingway fan. He thinks The Sun Also Rises his best book by far, but reckons he was not a patch on Theodore Dreiser.
Apparently Hemingway's behaviour when he visited the old shop was not always the best. When he idly picked up a magazine and found a critical review of his work headlined `The Dumb Ox', he grew so angry that he punched a vase of tulips, smashing the vase, decapitating the flowers and sending water pouring over the book display - thus neatly endorsing the title of the review. He was also, says George, very bad at returning library books.
`Mind you, Henry Miller was worse.'
We climb up a precarious ladder to George's office on the first floor, passing so many shelves, so densely packed, that it seems as if the shop may actually be held together by its books. It's conceivable that if you remove one strategically placed volume, you might bring the lot down and vanish for ever beneath an avalanche of literature.
For George Whitman this would doubtless be the perfect way to go. George's life is lived around, in, among and on top of books. Pausing only to show me how to turn the light on by pressing a Wittgenstein biography on a shelf beside the door, he shows me into his office. Of course it looks quite unlike any conventional office. It's lined with books, open books are spread three deep on what might be a desk, if you could see it for books, the walls are covered with posters about books, and there is a bed in which he sleeps when his flat above is occupied by a visiting author.
We talk a little about Paris in the twenties and why it was such an attraction for people like Hemingway. George ticks off the reasons crisply. Prohibition, book-burning and a general repressive attitude to the arts in the United States after the war, and of course, a favourable exchange rate which meant Americans could live quite well on very little. And the traditional qualities of Paris: tolerance for the arts, an audience for the avant-garde, an indulgence of experiment. The scale of the city, big enough to encompass cosmopolitan groups, ideas and influences, small enough to be walkable, and intimate enough for people to keep in touch easily. George believes the ferment of ideas that followed the end of the First World War has died down. The city is no longer the artistic focal point it was then. It has different priorities now. Most of the young Americans have business degrees. But he has a regular turnover of would-be writers, helping around the shop in return for as many books as they can read and, if they're lucky, a bed in an alcove in the Children's Book department.
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